“What happened?” I whisper.
He loudly swallows and rubs his bare legs. “Mama died an hour ago. She died in her sleep,” he answers softly. He lowers his head again and begins to weep.
I don’t know how to respond. He is my husband, and I know I should hold him, touch him, and comfort him. I should console him—but I can’t work up the urge to do it. I’m as moved by his tears as he is by mine. He has punched and slapped the feelings out of me. Instead, I stare at him as he cries. I watch him as he mourns his dead mother.
* * *
I stay home the day of the funeral. Cee thought it better that I do, and I don’t care one way or the other, frankly.
I am sitting in the living room, watching Gilligan’s Island and knitting a blue, yellow, and pink blanket for the baby and making a mess of it, when the front door flings open. It slams against the side of the foyer wall, and I jump in my chair, dropping my knitting needles to the floor. Cee stumbles through the door, laughing. He is being held up by a man I’ve never seen before—tall, blond, lanky, and dressed in a black suit just like Cee.
“Hey, where can I put him?” the man asks dispassionately. He looks annoyed.
I point toward the staircase. “You can take him to the bedroom upstairs.”
He nods, and I set aside my blanket and follow them up to the second floor. The whole time Cee has his arm slung around the man’s shoulder, laughing and talking like he’s just come from a bar, not a funeral.
“Do you remember the time when we played that prank our sophomore year at Tulane, Henry? Huh? Do you remember, buddy?” he slurs drunkenly to his friend, tapping his chest too hard.
“Yeah, I remember,” Henry mutters as he grunts and staggers under Cee’s weight. He still manages to carry him up the flight of stairs and down the hall, huffing and puffing along the way. I open the bedroom door for him, and he drops Cee onto the bed.
He glances at me. “You got it from here?”
I nod. “I’ll take care of him.”
His gaze drops to my protruding belly, then rises to my face. The bottom right half is swollen and bruised thanks to the punch earlier that week. He squints. “Are you sure? He’s not in a good place, kid. I’d call someone to help with him if you can.”
I am not a “kid,” and there is no one else to call, I want to say but don’t. “We’ll be fine.”
After Henry leaves, Cee’s laughter dies down, and he becomes sullen. It’s only three-thirty, so I head downstairs to make him a cup of coffee to sober him up.
“I don’t want any goddamn coffee!” he says, spitting the liquid onto me and himself, shoving the cup away. “Not unless you put some Irish whiskey in there!”
“I don’t think you need anything more to drink,” I whisper.
“Don’t tell me what I need, goddammit!”
“Why don’t you just go to sleep, Cee? You’ll feel better when you wake up.”
I try to undress him, starting with his suit jacket and tie, but he roughly shoves me away.
“I don’t need your fuckin’ help,” he barks, and I take a step back from the bed.
“Fine.” I hold up my hands in surrender and turn toward the door. “I’ll leave you alone. I’ll be downstairs.”
“Would it have killed you to come to the funeral?” he shouts at me, out of nowhere. “Would it have killed you to show my mother a little respect?”
I pause and face him again. “I thought . . . I thought you didn’t want me to come. You said it would upset your sister and the rest of the family.”
“I said no such thing, you lying bitch! You just didn’t want to go. Admit it! You don’t care about me! You just want my money. You always have!”
His eyes are bright, and his face is red. He is in his wild state again, beyond logic and reason. The alarm bells sing in my ears. I want out of this bedroom.
I start backing toward the door. I don’t want to turn my back to him. He might grab my hair or my clothes and pull me. I keep my eye on him like he’s a rabid dog.
“Melinda told me all about you,” he snarls. “I didn’t believe her at first, but I’m starting to wonder now. She said you set this whole thing up! Girls like you know how to do it. You wanted to trap me with some nigger baby so you could get all my money!”
“I didn’t trap you, Cee. I didn’t want to get married. You told me that we had to. I—”
“That’s what you wanted me to think!” His lips tighten as he lurches to his feet. “Mindy said that you’ve . . . you’ve messed with my head. That you turned me against my family, against Mama! She said you’ll only stick around long enough to divorce me and then take everything! Well, it’s not gonna happen. You hear me? No fucking way!”
I take another step toward the door, then another.
“Don’t you walk away from me, you lyin’ cunt!” And he grabs for me.
I turn and run. I’m not that fast to begin with, and I am slowed down even more by the baby who is shifting around in my belly, kicking at my ribs as my heart thuds in my chest at a breakneck speed. But the alcohol has made Cee’s gait unsteady and his feet unsure. He stumbles a few times and hits the wall hard. He struggles to keep up with me.
I run down the stairs, and I can hear him cussing and shouting my name. His voice sounds dry and hoarse. I glance over my shoulder and see his face. Its contorted by rage. He doesn’t look human anymore but like some picture show monster—a werewolf in a wrinkled funeral suit or maybe Mr. Hyde himself.
I trip on the floor runner and land splayed on the hardwood. The pain shoots up my abdomen and down my legs, and I scream out. But I can hear Cee not far behind me. I push myself to my knees and then my feet and start running again.
He lunges for me as I round the staircase. I whip open the pantry door and run inside, closing the sliding lock behind me.
When I moved into Harbor Hill, I was confused when I saw the lock on the door. Why would a pantry need a lock on the inside? But Cee explained that the pantry had once been the maid’s quarters in the early days of Harbor Hill. A twin bed and petite dresser had once been where shelves are now.
The lock afforded the maid some privacy, Cee explained.
I was eternally grateful for that lock today.
“Damnit, Dee, you better come outta there!” he yells, slamming against the door over and over again, making it rattle on its frame. “You open this door right now!”
I step away from the door, clutching my belly, biting back my sobs. I bump into one of the shelves, sending a canister of Cream of Wheat tumbling to the floor and rolling across the pantry.
“Open the damn door!” he screams, and I clap my hands over my ears.
There is more banging and yelling. I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling the wooden shelves pressing against my back and shoulders. I sink to my knees, then crouch on the floor. I wrap my arms around myself, rocking back and forth, singing the Lord’s Prayer. I pray that if Cee exerts himself, his anger will eventually be spent and he will walk away. I pray the liquor will finally take its toll and he’ll pass out.
“Fine, Dee!” he shouts. “Fine! You don’t wanna come out? You don’t wanna open the door, then you can damn well stay in there!”
I hear his shuffling footsteps, then the sound of something being dragged across the floor. There is a heavy thump. After that, the noises stop.
I wait. I count to one hundred twenty times before I finally press my ear against the door. I can hear nothing but the settling of the house.
Maybe Cee is asleep.
Ever so slowly, I slide back the lock. The click as it opens makes me whimper.
What if he heard it? What if he comes back?
But nothing happens. The silence and stillness remain.
I take a deep breath, drawing up my courage, and push against the door to open it—but it doesn’t budge. I try again, but nothing happens. I try over and over again, forcing my weight and muscles against the wooden slab until I’m gritting my teeth, until I’m panting—but it’s
useless. I realize now what I heard minutes before. I know now what he meant when he said I could “damn well stay in there.”
Cee has propped a chair against the door so I can’t get out.
I whimper again, ease back against the shelves, and slump to the floor.
The hours stretch. My eyes grow heavy. I fall asleep in the cold, damp pantry. I am jolted awake by the sound of Cee’s footsteps near the door. The pain in my abdomen is worse now. I suck in deep breaths and fight back moans.
I squint against the bright light coming from the overhead bulb. Is it still afternoon, or is it night? Is it the next day? How long have I been in here?
“Cee? Cee? Open up! I’m hurt. Open up, please,” I call out, but he doesn’t answer me. The thud of his footsteps recedes, then disappears.
More hours pass, though I don’t know how many. I can feel my bladder growing heavy.
I call again to be let out.
I cry.
I count the cans and jars on the shelves until I reach forty-three, then start over again, anything to distract me from the pain that feels like someone is running a knife across my stomach.
I open a jar of preserved peaches and gobble them up, letting the juice slide down my chin. I pee in the same jar.
The hours stretch. I don’t know if it’s still Wednesday or if it’s Thursday now.
I fall asleep again and wake up. The pain is still there, and it is scaring me. The baby isn’t moving as much. I jiggle my tummy. I whisper to it, “Baby, wake up. Wake up for Mommy.” Still no kicks. Maybe it is exhausted like I am.
I eat a jar of pickles and half a box of Frosted Flakes.
I pee in two more jars and set them in a line on the other side of the pantry, trying my best to ignore the smell of urine that fills the air.
The sounds of Harbor Hill become the symphony of my lonely space, marking the time with a rhythm.
Footsteps . . .
Radio . . .
The ringing of the phone . . .
The sound of flushing water . . .
Footsteps . . .
A door creaking open, then slamming shut . . .
The ringing of the phone . . .
Footsteps . . .
The monotony is broken when I feel a wetness between my thighs. Oh, dear. I’ve peed myself. But when I look down at the puddle on the floor, I see that it’s red, not yellow. A moan rises in my throat. It doesn’t sound like its coming from me. It sounds like an animal. It sounds horrible.
“Cee!” I scream, scrambling toward the door, banging my fists against it. “Chauncey, let me out! Something is wrong with the baby! I’m bleeding. Cee, please!”
And finally, the door swings open.
CHAPTER 33
It was a boy. The doctor breaks the news to me in my hospital room as the nurse tends to my bruises and I’m treated for blood loss and acute dehydration after the three days I spent stuck in the pantry closet.
They took the baby out by emergency C-section while I was under anesthesia. They said he was already dead by the time I’d arrived at the emergency room. They said the trauma from my accidental fall at the foot of the stairs (I told them it was an accident because it was; I didn’t need to tell them I was running from my husband) is likely what killed him.
I am too tired and numb with grief to cry. I am glad I wasn’t awake in the operating room when they pulled out my boy, who still held the warmth of my body but was silent and unmoving in the doctor’s pale hands. I wouldn’t have wanted to see that or hear it.
When Cee walks into my hospital room with a bouquet of more than two dozen roses in his arms, I can tell from the look on his face that he already knows our son is dead. His eyes are red. His face is pale and gaunt. He hasn’t shaved. He rushes to my bed and collapses into the chair beside it, almost flinging the bouquet onto my thighs. He wraps his arms around me.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” he sobs. “I’m so sorry!”
I’m not sure what he’s sorry about—that our baby boy is dead, or how he kept me locked in a closet for three days while I screamed in pain and our baby slowly died. I don’t ask, and I don’t hug him back. I sit stiffly in the bed as he cries, wetting my hospital gown with his tears.
He finally pulls back a minute later and looks up at me. He wipes his runny nose on the back of his hand.
“I know you’re angry at me. And . . . and you have every right to be. What I said, what I . . . I did was unforgivable. You . . . you probably want to leave me now. You’re ready to pack your bags and move out.” He grabs one of my hands, which are folded in my lap. He kisses it, then squeezes it gently. “But please give me another chance, Dee. I can’t lose my mother, the baby, and you in a matter of weeks! I would never make it!”
Again, I don’t respond. Instead, I marvel that even at a moment like this, Cee manages to make it about himself.
I want to tell him how selfish he is, how he claimed I lied to him but really he lied to me, spouting beautiful words and false dreams that ensnared me like a fly in a spiderweb. He stole my hopes. He killed my baby. I will not absolve him of my pain. I open my mouth to tell him all of this when he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a sheet of paper. I watch as he unfolds it.
“It’s all yours, baby,” he says, holding out the paper to me. “Harbor Hill . . . everything that I have. I don’t give a shit what my sister says. You’re my wife, and I love you. I want to finally show you that I do. I called my lawyer this morning and had him draw up the paperwork. I signed my intent. I’m adding you to the deed. I’m changing my will, Dee. My mother and my sister were my beneficiaries, but now it’s just you. When I die, everything . . . everything goes to you.”
I slowly take the sheet of paper and read it. Exactly what he said is typed on the page. I am co-owner of Harbor Hill. I will inherit everything upon Cee’s death.
“Will you stay, Dee?” he asks, taking my free hand again and clutching it for dear life. “Baby, if you leave me . . . I’ll kill myself. A bullet to the head. I mean it!”
I stare down at the paper and then into his desperate eyes. I am still numb, still exhausted. I can’t answer. I can’t work up the energy, so I nod instead, and he begins to weep again.
* * *
When I arrive back home from the hospital a few days later, I expect Harbor Hill to look different for some reason. I expect my loss and misery to be painted on the walls, to hang from the windows like a shroud. But I am greeted by cheery yellow wallpaper and hardwood that smells of lemon. The air inside is light, and sun streams through the windows.
“I’ll be back later tonight, sweetheart,” Cee says to me after he deposits me on our bed. He kisses my cheek. “Rest. Put your feet up. Okay?”
I nod limply.
After I hear the front door shut, I slowly rise from the bed and walk down the hall to the nursery. Part of me doesn’t want to go in there, but I know I will have to make this journey eventually. I push open the door and look at the walls, which are covered with a painted motif of bunnies and chicks. A crib is nestled in the center of the room, and I walk over to it. I stare down at the empty bed and drop my hand down to my waist, which isn’t quite flat but no longer full and round like it used to be. I wait for the tears to sting my eyes, but they don’t. Instead, I turn away from the crib and walk back into our bedroom. I grab the princess phone on my night table and turn the rotary wheel to start dialing.
“Hello?” Agnes answers.
“Hey, it’s Dee.” I twirl the phone cord around my finger. “I know today is your day off and you may have plans, but . . . I need your help.”
Agnes arrives at the house a couple of hours later. When I greet her at the door, I am all smiles and wearing one of my maternity dresses, but she looks me up and down and squints, sensing instantly that something is wrong
“What happened?” she asks, stepping through the door, frowning.
“Nothing!” I answer nervously. “Why do you think something happened?”
“Because
you look strange, girl! Where did you get that?” she asks, pointing to the bruise on the side of my face that still hasn’t healed completely from the punch Cee gave me more than a week ago.
“Oh,” my smile widens as I raise my hand to my chin, “I was being clumsy when I did that. It was just an accident. It looks worse than it feels.” I beckon her forward. “Come on. Let me show you the place. I’ll take your coat.”
I told Agnes on the phone that I needed her help cleaning up a room, but I didn’t tell her which room. I promised her a nice lunch in a big house—a day all to ourselves.
I give her the grand tour of Harbor Hill since she has never been here before. She goes wide-eyed at all the rooms, the big windows, and the expensive fixtures. I make her a lunch of pork chops, mashed potatoes, and biscuits, and we eat and gossip. She tells me that the Williams family aren’t tightening their purse strings anymore now that Mama Buford died, leaving Miss Mindy some money. She tells me that she’s met an MP from Nashville and they’ve gone out on a few dates.
All the while, I can feel her discerning eyes on me. The wrinkle of concern doesn’t leave her brow. She asks me again what’s wrong, and I shrug it off. I tell her it’s time to clean the room.
We head upstairs, laughing and talking all the way. I push open the nursery door, and she steps inside. The wrinkle in her brow deepens. She turns to me.
“Why are we in here?”
I take a deep breath. “I have to pack up the nursery.”
“What for?” She leans toward me and whispers, “You leaving him?”
“No . . . nothing like that.” I run my hand over my stomach to show how flat it is now. “I lost the baby.”
“What?” Agnes cries. She grabs my shoulders and yanks me toward her and envelopes me in a hug. “Oh, honey! Sweetheart! Lord, I knew something was wrong. I could see it on your face!” She leans back and stares into my eyes. Tears are on her cheeks. “Here we were talking and eating pork chops like some fools! Why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t want to tell you over the phone. I didn’t know how to say it, so . . . I thought it was just best to . . . well . . . show you.”
The House on Harbor Hill Page 27